In Winter
by werelupewoods
Summary: A somewhat-chaotic vignette exploring one of my many headcanons about the Gelert Assassin — my theory of how he became the ruthless assassin that he is, and why he continues the craft. I, uh, couldn't decide if this needed a T or M rating, for language and violence, so I went with M just to be safe. That is all.


**So, I have this headcanon about the Gelert Assassin... (Like I don't say that a million times a day...)**

 **I like to think that the way he started stabbing people for a living was because his wife was murdered, and he sought out her killer and, uh, "killed him back," so to speak. Then it all spiralled out of control from there — trauma and coping methods and all that jazz, you know? So this is a scatterbrained little vignette following that idea. Because I'm bad at fleshing out entire stories and can only really write vignettes. Uh, also, I really like repetition. Like, a lot. So beware.**

 **Uh, please note that my headcanon name for the Gelert Assassin is Simeon, so you'll be reading that name a lot. Yeah.**

 **Hope y'all enjoy at least a little bit.**

 **Comments/criticism is greatly appreciated.**

 **Thanks, guys.**

 **-Em**

* * *

A taunt.

A scream.

A splash, then a laugh.

Then, with that, it all goes silent.

The midnight mists of Meridell are a loving ghost against Simeon's cheeks. It's bleak, and it's dark, and the forgotten alleyway he stands within cradles him too coldly to be comforting. Still, though the moonlight is pale, and though the darkness is smothering, the blood on the cold cobblestone ground shimmers delicately, as bright and warm and beautiful as the Neopian sun.

Beautiful to him, at least. It always is, and always has been.

Well, always, except for...

No, that doesn't matter.

The purple Zafara's limp body casts a fierce shadow across the ground. He is haloed in crimson, as frigid as the streets below, silently paling under the autumn's fog. Simeon has been through this macabre routine enough times for it to be getting truly _boring_ — or, at least, probably _would_ be boring for someone else. He has yet to grow tired of it. It hasn't been long enough for that. And, a silent part of him worries it never will be.

Not like that really matters. He tries to believe that that's not the reason he does this anymore. It's something else. It must be. It's been countless years, after all. There must be another reason.

And there is... sort of. There's a certain thrill that comes with the leeching of life, or so he's found. It's a feeling of absolute power — holding a person's destiny in the palm of your hand, able to be as vengeful or as merciful a god as you desire. Dominance. Raw authority. Every time Simeon finds himself standing above the husk of a fresh target, revelling in the euphoria of his misplaced revenge, he feels that rush. Still, he can't help but wonder — wonder if that's how _he_ must have felt, all those years ago, when...

No, that doesn't matter.

Besides, this is different.

Simeon sighs, shaking his head in disappointment. The Zafara barely put up a fight. How boring. That's the only unfortunate thing about having such a glowing reputation — the fact that all of his targets know there's no hope when they see him standing before them and immediately succumb. It used to be more _fun_ than this. Back in the beginning, when he was still just a nameless, faceless Gelert with a vendetta against nobody in particular and nothing left to live for. Back then, there would be at least a _slight_ scuffle. He would swing, and they would deflect. They would strike, and he would counter. Sometimes, he would be caught in a blade's periphery. Sometimes, he would struggle to stay on his feet. But he was always victorious, and each new scar served only as a lesson. That's what comes with having nothing to lose, apparently: life. As silly as it sounds, it does. The more unafraid someone is to die, the more fully they live.

But maybe that's just him.

He's always been a bit peculiar.

Either way, Simeon doesn't care about that. About himself, that is. Why should he? Nobody's ever given a shit about him — not his family, the so-called friends he had growing up, the townsfolk he saw every day as a child, not even himself. Nobody gave a damn. Ever. Nobody, except for...

No, that doesn't matter.

Not anymore.

The sight of the Zafara's disfigured silhouette at his feet curls the corners of Simeon's lips into a smile, though the expression feels void. It always does. Honestly, he doesn't really remember what it feels like for happiness to accompany a smile. In fact, he doesn't quite remember happiness at all. Not since...

Does this make him happy? Looming over his victims, triumphant in his hunt, adding another victory in his quest for who-knows-what... is this what joy feels like? He's not sure anymore. Perhaps the smiles have become empty because his standards for what happiness should feel like just became too high; high from so many years of beautiful sunrises, soft kisses, and summer songs; high from all those years ago, back when she...

No, that doesn't matter.

If this horrifying twisting in his gut and this endless aching in his heart is what happiness for him is destined to feel like from here to eternity, then so be it. Who cares, anyway? He doesn't. Why should he? Nobody's ever given a shit about him. Nobody, except...

He taps the tip of his sword against the ground a few times to shake some of the blood from its blade. The worn steel makes a delicate _click-click_ against the old stones, ringing clear through the moonmist. That sound, it seems, is the only thing in this world that says that he is there. That he is still alive, and she is not. That this is what his life has become.

He ignores the thoughts, though. He doesn't care. Why should he?

Lifting an edge of his cloak with one hand, Simeon drags the jagged blade across the fabric, wiping the sword clean, staining the tattered garment with the life of this just-another-victim. This useless, nameless Zafara. And, truly, to him, he _was_ nameless. A nobody. Worthless. And that's just the way he likes it. If his target has a name, then there's no point. If his target has an identity, then there's no justification. He doesn't care about who they are. Why should he? All he cares about — all he has _ever_ cared about — is...

No, that doesn't matter.

Not anymore.

It's been years, for Fyora's sake.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

But, still, though he refuses to admit it...

It's all that _does_ matter.

Simeon sheaths his blade, then laces his fingers calmly behind his back. He circles the once-was Zafara, just to make sure he's dead, or something. That's what he tells himself, at least. Each and every time. He refuses to accept the fact that, truly, at the heart of all this violence, this is all because, when Kreludor's worn light spills across his back, and his shadow paints his victim's corpse in a cruel black, he can relax his eyes, and he can hold his breath, and he can pretend. He can pretend that it's...

Him.

And he does pretend. Every time. Though he doesn't acknowledge it, and though he refuses to admit that that's why he does this little routine, he pretends. He always pretends.

Because there's this place in the back of his mind that he tries to ignore, but its pressure is always there. It's a place where he used to live comfortably. It's a place full of memories. And, at the core, it still is, but all the pictures have changed. Corroded. Decayed. It once was a place full of evening picnics on the sunlit shores of the Brightvale ocean, and of the sweet smell of her hair when they embraced, and of the softness of her lips against his... Once was. Once. But now, it's desolate. Empty. Haunted. All visions have been destroyed, just as she was. All visions but one. In this place — in that darkness — all that lives now is one thought. One dream. One memory. One image of her before him, empty and lifeless. The coldness of her frozen fingers. The glassiness of her once-jade eyes. The way his tears left ripples in the pool of her blood. The way he swore to avenge her.

He hates that place. He refuses to allow himself to go there anymore.

It doesn't matter, anyway.

It's been years, for Fyora's sake.

But, still, though he refuses to admit it...

He still lives there. He always has. And, unfortunately for him, it seems he always will.

Though he refuses to admit it, the throbbing pain from that horrible place is the only reason these contracts keep him alive. It's not the surge of power he feels when admiring his victims' hopeless and terror-struck eyes. It's not the electric ecstasy that comes with winning another duel. It's not the fun of toying with targets until they accept their fate — no, that's not it. It never has been. And, though he tries his best to ignore the thought, he knows it never will be.

The real reason is that he's a good liar. Deception is a key tool in his trade, after all. He can trick almost anyone into believing what he wants, until they let their guard down, and he can strike. He can trick anyone — that's what makes him so skilled in his craft. He can trick anyone, including himself. And he does. He always does. He's a good liar.

As the night's breeze lazily lifts and lowers his cloak, chilling the tips of his drooping ears, numbing his still-bloodied fingertips, Simeon lies to himself again. He pretends again. Kreludor above doesn't shift, and the buildings beside him don't collapse. The pavement is still pavement, and the autumn is still autumn, and he's still standing here, in this alleyway, with his sword at his hip and this muted Zafara before him, but... he's a good liar. He lies to himself. And he convinces himself.

In this moment, it is winter, and it is snowing. The messy scarlet splattered across his face and across the white blanket below his feet is brighter and more beautiful than Faerieland itself. In this moment, he, hopeless and scared, shaking and crying, with a clumsy sword in one hand and his quivering lips turned into a scowl, looks down at the Skeith he so messily dismembered, and he laughs. He laughs painfully — manically. He laughs, and his eyes cascade, and his knees buckle, and he feels so sick he could vomit, but he laughs. He laughs, and he cries out to the Skeith, "Rot in Hell, you bastard!" And he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs.

In this moment, the Zafara isn't a Zafara anymore. In this moment, he is that same, disgusting mercenary. He is that Skeith, and the cobblestones are white with winter, and Simeon's sword has fallen from his trembling fingers into the snow.

He's a good liar.

He's convinced himself that the Zafara is...

Him.

As he has with all the others.

He's a good liar.

Because, though he refuses to admit it, that winter morning, as he knelt in the frost and sobbed into the palms of his hands, coughing from the ice freezing his throat, he didn't kill the Skeith. He didn't. He couldn't have. If he had, he wouldn't have felt so empty. He wouldn't have felt like he had accomplished nothing. He wouldn't have felt like she had not been avenged. No, that morning, her murderer didn't die along with his body. Her murderer survived, even when the snow consumed him and his flesh turned to mud. He survived, because Simeon survived. He survived, because she did not.

But still, with each new contract, and each new target, and each new kill, Simeon gets closer to defeating him.

Or so he tells himself.

He's a good liar.

And so it is here, standing above the lifeless Zafara — the lifeless Skeith — that he, once again, laughs. And he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs. Still, despite the deception, a painfully aching part of him knows it's all false. Knows that he is no closer to the closure he so hungrily desires than he was all those years ago in winter. Knows that the Zafara is not the one he is truly after. Knows that she is still...

No, that doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter, because he can always pretend.

He's a good liar.

Simeon shakes his head again, then backs away from the body. He takes a deep breath, and he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, it's winter. It's winter, and he's gotten closer to the one kill he so desperately craves. He opens his eyes, and he looks at the Skeith by his feet, and he smiles — "happy." That aching part of him knows it's not really him, but...

The truth is, he's not good enough.

He's a good liar, but he can't convince the Zafara to change into her killer, just like he hasn't been able to convince any of the others.

He's a good liar, but still, none of them ever change.

The dead don't fall for shit.

He knows this, and he knows they never will, but...

No, that doesn't matter.

Not anymore.

Besides, this is different.

That's not why he does this anymore.

It's been years, for Fyora's sake.

That's not why he does this anymore.

It can't be.

Right?


End file.
